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Authors: John Frederick
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the wind and sun. At the same time there was a
peculiar fineness about the boy. His feet were astonishingly small and the hands
thin and slender for all their supple strength. And his neck was not bony, as it
is in most youths at this gawky age, but smoothly rounded.
Men grow big of bone and sparse of flesh in the mountain desert. It was the
more surprising to Pierre to see this young fellow with the marvelously
delicate-cut features. By some freak of nature here was a place where the breed
ran to high blood.
The cleaning completed, the boy tossed the butt of the gun to his shoulder
and squinted down the barrel. Then he loaded the magazine, weighted the gun
deftly at the balance, and dropped the rifle across his knees.
"Morning," said Pierre le Rouge cheerily, and swung off the bunk to the
floor. "How old's the gun?"
The boy, without the slightest show of excitement, snapped the butt to his
shoulder and drew a bead on Pierre's breast.
"Sit down before you get all heated up," said a musical voice. "There's
nobody waiting for you on horseback."
And Pierre sat down, partly because Western men never argue a point when that
little black hole is staring them in the face, partly because he remembered with
a rush that the last time he had fully possessed his consciousness he had been
lying in the snow with the cross gripped hard and the toppling mass of the
landslide above him. All that had happened between was blotted from his memory.
He fumbled at his throat. The cross was not there. He touched his pockets.
"Ease your hands away from your hip," said the cold voice of the boy, who had
dropped his gun to the ready with a significant finger curled around the
trigger, "or I'll drill you clean."
Pierre obediently raised his hands to the level of his shoulders. The boy
sneered, and a light of infinite scorn blazed into those great black eyes.
"This isn't a hold-up," he explained. "Put 'em down again, but watch
yourself."
The sneer varied to a contemptuous smile.
"I guess you're tame, all right."
"Point that gun another way, will you, son?"
The boy started and flushed a little.
"Don't call me son."
"Is this a lockupa jail?"
"This?"
"What is it, then? The last I remember I was lying in the snow with"
"I wish to God you'd been let there," said the boy bitterly.
But Pierre, overwhelmed with the endeavor to recollect, rushed on with his
questions and paid no heed to the tone.
"I had a cross in my hand"
The scorn of the boy grew to mighty proportions.
"It's there in the breast-pocket of your shirt."
Pierre drew out the little cross, and the touch of it against his palm
restored whatever of his strength was lacking. Very carefully he attached it to
the chain about his throat. Then he looked up to the contempt of the boy, and as
he did so another memory burst on him and brought him to his feet. The gun went
to the boy's shoulders at the same time.
"When I was foundwas any one else with me?"
"Nope."
"What happened?"
"Must have been buried in the landslide. Half a hill caved in, and the dirt
rolled you down to the bottom. Plain luck, that's all, that kept you from going
out."
"Luck?" said Pierre and he laid his hand against his breast where he could
feel the outline of the cross. "Yes, I suppose it was luck. And she"
He sat down slowly and buried his face in his hands. A new tone came in the
voice of the boy. His tone was thrillingly gentle as he asked: "Was a woman with
you?" But Pierre heard only the tone and not the words. His face was gray when
he looked up again, and his voice hard.
"Tell me as briefly as you can how I come here, and who picked me up."
"My father and his men. They passed you lying on the snow. They brought you
home."
"Who is your father?"
The boy stiffened and his color rose in pride and defiance.
"My father is Jim Boone."
Instinctively, while he stared, the right hand of Pierre le Rouge crept
toward his hip.
"Keep your hand steady," said the boy. "I got a
peculiar fineness about the boy. His feet were astonishingly small and the hands
thin and slender for all their supple strength. And his neck was not bony, as it
is in most youths at this gawky age, but smoothly rounded.
Men grow big of bone and sparse of flesh in the mountain desert. It was the
more surprising to Pierre to see this young fellow with the marvelously
delicate-cut features. By some freak of nature here was a place where the breed
ran to high blood.
The cleaning completed, the boy tossed the butt of the gun to his shoulder
and squinted down the barrel. Then he loaded the magazine, weighted the gun
deftly at the balance, and dropped the rifle across his knees.
"Morning," said Pierre le Rouge cheerily, and swung off the bunk to the
floor. "How old's the gun?"
The boy, without the slightest show of excitement, snapped the butt to his
shoulder and drew a bead on Pierre's breast.
"Sit down before you get all heated up," said a musical voice. "There's
nobody waiting for you on horseback."
And Pierre sat down, partly because Western men never argue a point when that
little black hole is staring them in the face, partly because he remembered with
a rush that the last time he had fully possessed his consciousness he had been
lying in the snow with the cross gripped hard and the toppling mass of the
landslide above him. All that had happened between was blotted from his memory.
He fumbled at his throat. The cross was not there. He touched his pockets.
"Ease your hands away from your hip," said the cold voice of the boy, who had
dropped his gun to the ready with a significant finger curled around the
trigger, "or I'll drill you clean."
Pierre obediently raised his hands to the level of his shoulders. The boy
sneered, and a light of infinite scorn blazed into those great black eyes.
"This isn't a hold-up," he explained. "Put 'em down again, but watch
yourself."
The sneer varied to a contemptuous smile.
"I guess you're tame, all right."
"Point that gun another way, will you, son?"
The boy started and flushed a little.
"Don't call me son."
"Is this a lockupa jail?"
"This?"
"What is it, then? The last I remember I was lying in the snow with"
"I wish to God you'd been let there," said the boy bitterly.
But Pierre, overwhelmed with the endeavor to recollect, rushed on with his
questions and paid no heed to the tone.
"I had a cross in my hand"
The scorn of the boy grew to mighty proportions.
"It's there in the breast-pocket of your shirt."
Pierre drew out the little cross, and the touch of it against his palm
restored whatever of his strength was lacking. Very carefully he attached it to
the chain about his throat. Then he looked up to the contempt of the boy, and as
he did so another memory burst on him and brought him to his feet. The gun went
to the boy's shoulders at the same time.
"When I was foundwas any one else with me?"
"Nope."
"What happened?"
"Must have been buried in the landslide. Half a hill caved in, and the dirt
rolled you down to the bottom. Plain luck, that's all, that kept you from going
out."
"Luck?" said Pierre and he laid his hand against his breast where he could
feel the outline of the cross. "Yes, I suppose it was luck. And she"
He sat down slowly and buried his face in his hands. A new tone came in the
voice of the boy. His tone was thrillingly gentle as he asked: "Was a woman with
you?" But Pierre heard only the tone and not the words. His face was gray when
he looked up again, and his voice hard.
"Tell me as briefly as you can how I come here, and who picked me up."
"My father and his men. They passed you lying on the snow. They brought you
home."
"Who is your father?"
The boy stiffened and his color rose in pride and defiance.
"My father is Jim Boone."
Instinctively, while he stared, the right hand of Pierre le Rouge crept
toward his hip.
"Keep your hand steady," said the boy. "I got a
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